


Starving

by CharliPetidei



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Clubbing, Comedy, Extended Metaphors, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Food related pickup lines, Humour, Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Porn With Plot, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25569904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharliPetidei/pseuds/CharliPetidei
Summary: Hermione has everything figured out. Sex is like food. Club nights are far too expensive. And men belong in the category of 'things that are more faff than they're worth'. You know, like hair straightening charms, lingerie, and mathematical integration.This is a story about food and sex, though not at the same time.Winner of best fluff, best smut, and runner-up for best use of prompt in the Dramione Fanfiction Forum's 2020 'Sounds Like Dramione' comp.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 164
Kudos: 602
Collections: 2020 Sounds Like Dramione





	1. Three Months A.D.

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [2020SoundsLikeDramione](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2020SoundsLikeDramione) collection. 



> Sounds Like Dramione 2020 Best Fluff - Winner  
> Sounds Like Dramione 2020 Best Smut - Winner  
> Sounds Like Dramione 2020 Best Use Of Prompt - Runner-Up
> 
> I had the best time writing this story and was so thrilled to have won these awards. Humongous thanks to everyone who voted, and a huge congratulations to all the other incredible stories in this comp! You're all wonderful and it was a privilege to have been a part of it with you <3  
> My prompt was 'By the way, you do things to my body. I didn't know that I was starving 'til I tasted you' from 'Starving' by Hailee Steinfeld.
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.R. and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended.

The moment that Hermione Granger realised sex was like food was the very same moment she realised that she and Ron Weasley were never going to work.

She wished she could say that Ron had been understanding when she told him, but he hadn’t. Not that she’d expected anything else. Hermione was fairly sure that Ron was so excited to be having sex at all that it had never occurred to him to be dissatisfied.

It was like food, thought Hermione. Ron liked food. He wasn’t fussy about when it was offered or how it looked, as long as it was _his_ and there was _a lot of it_. And Hermione supposed that she enjoyed cooking the meals he liked so much. She liked food too, you know. It’s just that, well, she was tired of having the same meal every night. The same meal that Ron usually finished quickly, leaving Hermione to clear her plate alone.

It was enough to make anyone lose their appetite.

Yes, she thought. Sex was like food. And cooking had become a chore.

A week after the breakup, Hermione found herself in Parvati’s kitchen, halfway through a bottle of claret and an explanation of this particular metaphor.

“So, you’re saying that one Weasley was enough to put you off sex forever?” asked Parvati over the top of her wine glass, incredulous.

“Well, I wasn’t planning to test the theory with another one,” said Hermione.

Ginny, who’d been sat staring out of the window with her fingers in her ears from the moment the conversation had turned to Ron and Hermione’s sex life, looked up in horror. “Godric, Hermione, I should hope not. As much as I’d love you as a sister-in-law, the dating pool _does_ extend beyond my immediate family.”

Hemione snorted. “Weasley or otherwise, I don’t want to go through the whole dating thing all over again just to find that sex is still disappointing. Maybe it’s not for me. Maybe I need to find a nice boy that expects nothing sexually.”

Parvati rolled her eyes at that. “Bullshit,” she said. “Bullshit,” again. “I give it a month, tops. You’ll be itching to get laid. _Itching_.”

“There’s a potion for that,” said Ginny impishly. Parvati snorted red wine out of her nose and knocked Hermione’s glass onto the floor. Two _reparo_ s and a sobering charm later, the night only went downhill from there.

* * *

To Parvati and Ginny’s surprise, a month passed, and then two. Hermione’s sex life remained uneventful, and yet she had never felt so satisfied.

For a start, her work with S.P.E.W. at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had finally begun to get off the ground, with some major strides into fair wages and provision of uniforms. Once the message had sunk in that offering the elves pay was not, in fact, tantamount to dismissal, they had made surprisingly good progress. In fact, Hermione and two house elves named Milley and Dorny were due to speak in front of the Wizengamot on the subject next month.

Secondly, Hermione had been using the excuse of singlehood to experience the life of a young free witch that she’d missed out on somewhere between attending the Yule Ball and hunting down the soul fragments of a homicidal dark wizard. Between hen dos, housewarming parties, and frequent nightclub outings, Hermione was fairly sure that she, Ginny, and Parvati had been to more parties in the last two months than they had throughout their entire Hogwarts career.

Thirdly, though the demise of her and Ron’s relationship had been incredibly turbulent at first, time had given way to peace. Harry had always been rather awkward around them as a couple, so his relief that they were back to their easy friendship of old was almost palpable. It meant that finally, all three of them could hang out comfortably, without things like an impending wizarding war hanging over their heads.

All in all, life was good. So good, in fact, that Hermione had all but written men off into the category of ‘ _things that are more faff than they’re worth’_ , along with hair straightening charms, lingerie, and mathematical integration.

This mindset persisted on into the third month A.D. (‘After Dick’, as Parvati had dubbed it; or as Hermione preferred to think of it: ‘Avoiding Distractions’).

It was a typical Friday night at the Leaky Cauldron. What felt to Hermione like most of the Hogwarts alumni from Hermione’s school days were packed into the pub, taking up table after table as if they were back in the Great Hall all over again. The firewhiskey was flowing, the conversation buzzing, and at least three sets of exploding snap were, well, exploding.

Hermione wasn’t sure if it was after her second, or third, or maybe even her eighth glass of wine, but at some point, Ginny grabbed her hand and leaned in to shout in her ear. “Everyone’s going to _Tarantallegra_! You coming?!”

Hermione grinned broadly, already reaching out to knock back the dregs in her wine glass. “Absolutely,” she answered, squeezing Ginny’s hand and following the crowd of rowdy pubgoers out into the streets of London.

_Tarantallegra_ was inarguably the best wizarding nightclub London had to offer. An odd mixture of sticky carpets and classy décor, it was the perfect hotbed for drunken revelry. Drinks could be summoned first and paid for later, the dress code was non-existent, and a handy side-along apparition service for any guests too drunk to see themselves home rendered it the go-to destination for the young witch or wizard out on the town. Hermione thought it was awfully expensive, really, but the music, the weird and wonderful clientele, and the fantastic time they always ended up having there, made it worth it.

Despite arriving in such a massive group, a bashful grin from Harry had the goblin bouncer waving them all in immediately, nodding his head in recognition as they passed. Parvati managed to catch up to Hermione and Ginny as they passed the ticket office, crushing them into a hug halfway up the entrance stairs. “It’s _Amortension_ night tonight girls! You know what that means?!”

“The bar will be charging double?” Hermione guessed, at the same time as Ginny cried: “Sexy music!”

“Fuck yeah!” yelled Parvati, dragging them both the rest of the way into the club. “It’s sexy night! Let’s _go_!”

Laughing, Hermione allowed herself to be pulled out onto the dancefloor, squeezing past throngs of dancing bodies into a space occupied by Seamus, Neville, and too many other ex-Gryffindors to name.

The music was heady and intoxicating, the bass thumping up through the soles of Hermione’s feet and filling her chest like a balloon. _Amortension_ was just an excuse to churn out all the songs about sex that the wizarding world had to offer; a ploy to boost drinks sales and an excuse to charge more Galleons for just about everything. However, looking around, she had to admit that she was a fan of the new red-and-black themed décor. And nights like these had a habit of producing some unlikely couples that she would enjoy gossiping about come tomorrow.

Hermione summoned herself a firewhiskey and had barely taken a sip before Ginny pressed a _BeauxBatBomb_ into her hand, shouting something unintelligible. At an encouraging grin from Parvati, she drained it down and grimaced, making Ginny laugh. Shaking off the burn of the alcohol, Hermione banished the glass and lifted her arms above her head, throwing herself into dancing with an enthusiasm she always forgot she had until nights like these.

Minutes passed like this, maybe hours. Hermione danced with Ginny, with Parvati, then with Neville, with Dean Thomas, with Hannah Abbott, with Anthony Goldstein (who tried to make a pass at her before being politely declined), then with Harry, with Padma Patil, with Ron (but only for a little bit, lest he got the wrong idea), and even with Pansy Parkinson, who had appeared out of nowhere with a grin so bright it lit up the nightclub.

Pansy had become something of a reformed character of late, clearly trying to make reparations for the behaviour of her youth by joining Hermione’s crusade against magical injustice and fighting for house elf rights with the determination of someone with something to prove. She was a welcome face at Hermione’s office, dropping by every now and again, invariably laden with coffee, paperwork, and the latest gossip.

Hermione was busy losing herself in the music and the magic and the movement until she remembered that if Pansy was here, that probably meant…

Yeah.

That’s when she saw him.

A flash of white-blond hair. It was unmistakeable, really. Hermione was still trying to work out if seeing him tonight was a good or a bad thing when she realised that Pansy was stretching out a hand, pulling Draco Malfoy towards the two of them.

His eyes met Hermione’s for the briefest of seconds, but something ran through her as sharply as a jinx. Heart suddenly pumping, Hermione copied Malfoy’s lead by letting her gaze slide away, trying not to stare. And yet as the music thumped on, and Hermione tried to lose herself in the dancing again, she noticed her attention wandering.

No, not wandering. That sounded far too vague.

It was, in fact, like her attention was a compass needle, and Malfoy was true North. He drew her attention like he had a magnetic pull; effortless, irrevocable, and for reasons that Hermione would have to do significant research to understand.

This was absurd, she thought. She knew, of course, that Malfoy was a changed man of late. He’d been instrumental as a spokesperson of the pureblood community, choosing to condemn the enslavement of house elves in a surprise move that Hermione probably had to thank for boosting her small campaign towards national appraisal.

And, she had to admit, he had grown into an attractive man. Tall and slender, with a masculine grace in the slant of his shoulders and the slope of his back. The paleness of his skin, so unearthly in boyhood, now held a regal quality that had Hermione’s eyes carding down the hollow of his throat and beneath the curve of his collar. The strobe lights above them were suddenly no more than an annoyance, forcing her to mentally map him out in mere flashes instead of the drawn-out gaze she wished she could indulge in.

She shook her head, frantically, laughing it off when Pansy raised an eyebrow at her. Thank God Malfoy seemed to be doing everything to avoid looking directly at her.

He was attractive, sure.

But that did nothing to explain why he was suddenly all she could look at.

Muttering an excuse to Pansy in a voice too low to be heard, Hermione slipped away, melting into the crowd in an attempt to find her way back to Ginny, to Parvati, to safety.

Spotting a shock of red hair, she made a beeline for her friends. Unaware of Hermione’s fluttering heart, Ginny cried out something in a delighted voice and pressed another drink into her hand. As Hermione raised the glass to her lips, she made the mistake of glancing back.

A pair of curious grey eyes watched her tip the glass, watched her swallow, watched her pause, pink spots appearing high on the cheekbones that had once done nothing but smirk. Suddenly unable to look away, Hermione stared back at him, feeling something unfurl into being despite the loud music and the undulating crowd around them.

She was entranced. And as they stared at one another, motionless amongst the chaos of the nightclub, something dawned on Hermione – that she was fairly sure that Malfoy was feeling the same way. She opened her mouth to say something, anything-

And then Harry appeared, cutting off her line of sight, his face split into a wide grin. “Hermione!” he shouted delightedly, loud enough to be heard even above the deafening music, and he squeezed her into a hug that soon had her laughing. A drunk Harry Potter was Hermione’s favourite Harry Potter.

And then, thanks to that, and the appearance of a Veela performer behind the bar, and the sheer amount of alcohol in her veins, Hermione forgot about anything else.


	2. Nice Buns, Granger

Over the next week at work, Hermione kept hoping that she would cross paths with Malfoy again. Usually they’d catch sight of one another every now and again in the elevator between Hermione’s office at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and Malfoy’s on the floor above at the Department of International Magical Cooperation. But as fate would have it, four days went by without Hermione seeing any trace of the man.

It was daft, really. Hermione didn’t know what she even wanted to say, or what she wanted him to say to her. But she couldn’t deny that she had felt something, watching him in the dark of _Amortension_ last week. Something was telling her to reach out to him, to bridge the gap of silence that had sat solidly between them for the five years since the war.

She kept telling herself that they would bump into one another eventually. After all, they never normally went more than a day or two without passing in the corridor or exchanging awkward small talk on the odd thirty-second-long elevator ride.

But when Friday morning rolled around, and Hermione’s journey to work revealed no more traces of Draco Malfoy than the previous five days, it began to dawn on her that perhaps he might be avoiding her.

Which is why 5pm that afternoon saw her waiting outside the office of one Mr Draco L. Malfoy, clutching a box of Chelsea buns to her chest with the kind of determined look in her eye that usually had bigwig Ministry officials running for cover.

Food. Everyone liked food. _Just like sex_ , she thought absently. _(She’d have to remember to add that to her extended metaphor later_ ). Food was as good a talking point as any. She’d drop the cake off, enquire how he was doing, and leave before she could say anything daft like ‘Hey, I thought you looked hot last Friday’. She flushed. Oh God. Absolutely not. She tried to evict the traitorous thought from her brain. What was wrong with her?

With a knock that sounded more confident than she felt, Hermione shook her hair back off her face and took a deep breath. She had planned out what she was going to say meticulously, to the letter, with the utmost precision.

And yet when the door swung open to reveal a surprised-looking Malfoy, in a fetching set of navy work robes and with his hair falling out of his normally pristine hairstyle, Hermione couldn’t do much more than thrust the cake box at him with a manic attempt at a smile that probably looked as if she’d been _imperio_ -ed.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Sex,” said Hermione.

Time froze. Malfoy’s eyes widened. Her blood turned to ice in her veins.

“Shit! Oh, my gosh, I meant to say food, oh, Merlin, I’m so sorry. It’s this stupid metaphor, you see, oh, gosh, that sex is like food, you see, and I… Oh Christ, I’m sorry. It’s food. Not sex. It’s a cake. Er, a Chelsea bun.”

There was laughter in Malfoy’s astonished eyes, but Hermione was the last thing from amused. She spun on her heel and fled down the corridor, cursing the bloody metaphor that had gotten her into this mess. She fought to regain her composure, but the merciless blush on her cheeks wasn’t letting her have it easy. God knew what Malfoy thought of her. Sex?! She was mortified. What the fuck, Hermione?

* * *

“What the fuck, Hermione?!” screeched Parvati, as predicted, several hours later. “You said what?!”

“That I was giving him sex,” said Hermione miserably.

Parvati and Ginny looked at one another and then dissolved once more into helpless laughter, Parvati smacking her hand against the table in hysterics and Ginny hunched over, her body shaking with mirth. Hermione groaned and knocked back her gillywater. She had a feeling she would be needing something stronger soon, anyway.

It was a long time before either of the girls were anywhere near a state conducive to offering comfort and support, and even when they were, the aforementioned comfort and support came mostly in the form of an invite to _Tarantallegra_ that evening.

“But we only went last week,” Hermione protested weakly, as the two other girls pushed past her and into her bedroom.

“But last week was _Amortension_! Tonight it’s _PolyJuicy_!” said Parvati excitedly, already rustling through Hermione’s wardrobe for a suitable outfit.

“Oh great. Another bad potion pun,” grumbled Hermione, knowing full well that no matter her protestations, she would in the middle of the _Tarantellegra_ dancefloor in about three hours’ time.

“Quit complaining,” said Ginny fondly, pulling out a slinky black dress that Hermione must have bought in a moment of blind courage. “You’ll have fun there, and you know it.”

“It’ll be just what you need to get over having offered Draco Malfoy _sex_ ,” said Parvati.

And this time, even Hermione couldn’t stop herself snorting with laughter.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, ‘ _PolyJuicy’_ turned out to be not all that different to _Amortension_. Hermione felt like a completely different person in the figure-hugging black dress and silver heels Ginny had insisted she wear, but everything else was the same. The same sticky carpets, the same strobe lighting, the same thumping bass.

The same encounter with a man with white-blond hair.

He moved so slowly, so casually, that Hermione didn’t even notice him until Ginny’s smile curved into a wicked grin and she mouthed a lecherous ‘ _dinner’s here_!’. Ignoring Hermione’s scandalised expression, she gave a wink and spun away, motioning for the others that they’d been dancing with to follow her. Hermione wished, not for the first time, that her friends were less invested in her sex life.

She turned around. And there he was, with his silver hair and steely eyes. Oh God. Memories of the disaster earlier that day came crashing back.

He smirked at her. “Nice buns, Granger.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open, and she was readying herself to respond with an impassioned speech about misogyny and the objectifying male gaze, when she noticed him grinning, more genuinely this time.

“Buns. As in Chelsea?” he added.

“…Oh! I thought you were-”

“It was a joke.”

“A joke. Right.” Hermione bit her lip, feeling suddenly far too sober for this. She couldn’t even bring herself to do that awkward _sort-of-dance_ she usually wound up doing when people tried talking to her in the club.

Malfoy said something then, but the music was so loud that Hermione had to ask him to repeat himself twice before giving up. She could barely hear herself think. “Booth?!” she yelled finally, and he nodded.

Impervious to the gleeful stares of Ginny and Parvati from a short distance away, Hermione turned and led Malfoy up the twisting stairs onto the top floor of the club. Plush fabric booths lined the wall, each one facing inwards onto a small metallic table. Despite the lack of a physical barrier, each booth was magically soundproofed, and as soon as Hermione stepped into one, all the noise and the clamour of the nightclub faded to nothing more than a pleasant background hum. Taking a seat felt to Hermione like taking a cool drink of water. Not only could she think again, she could actually hear Malfoy properly when he repeated his statement – which to her surprise, turned out to be an offer to summon her a drink.

Suspicious, but pleased, she accepted, and two identical glasses of firewhiskey immediately zoomed into their hands. Malfoy looked as if he’d never felt more at home, draped against the plush fabric seat across from her. He wore a dark shirt that contrasted loudly with the paleness of his skin, and tight muggle jeans that appeared more grey than blue in the half-light.

“I’m…sorry about earlier,” said Hermione, dragging her eyes away. “With the, er, Freudian slip.”

“That Freudian slip,” said Malfoy, “was the most entertaining thing I’ve seen all week.”

Hermine snorted. “Sounds like you don’t get out much.”

“ _Tarantallegra_ is pretty much the extent of my social interaction. And it’s not exactly designed for scintillating conversation.”

Hermione gestured pointedly to the two of them, sat so pleasantly across from one another. He laughed.

“Well, you’re the first witch to invite me to a booth in a while.”

She blushed.

“And the first witch to offer me sex in a while, too. In my office, no less.”

Hermione choked on her drink. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I have no idea how that happened. I can’t believe I said it…please, just forget it.”

“…Alright,” said Malfoy, his lips twisting into a wry grin. “Though I must say, I’m curious about this ‘food and sex’ theory you mentioned.”

“Metaphor,” she corrected, before she could help herself. Malfoy smirked archly at her and she felt her cheeks grow hot. “Shut up,” she mumbled into her firewhiskey.

“Well, if sex is like food, as you say, how should I interpret your turning up at my office with cake…?”

“Oh, Salazar, Malfoy. It was just a dumb thing I said by mistake. It doesn’t even apply to us, it was just, you know, something I thought about before.”

“Tell me more?”

“Not a chance.”

“Perhaps I’ll just have to draw my own conclusions about what a Chelsea bun means in this new food-sex algorithm, then.”

“Oh, for Christ’s….” Hermione huffed, folding her arms. “Look, you nosy prick, if you must know, it’s why Ron and I broke up.”

His gaze softened slightly, and she felt emboldened to continue. “Sex was like food. It became a chore. Like something I had to do. You can’t enjoy things like that.”

“Clearly you’ve never had good food.”

Had he meant to lace that comment with such a sexual undertone? Hermione looked up to meet his eyes and noticed his grin.

Oh. He had.

Something inside her tightened, but not unpleasantly. His hand brushed hers where it sat on the table and Hermione felt her heart start to pound.

“I’ve had good food before,” she snapped, trying to ignore the sensation. “I just wasn’t hungry, all right?”

He smiled wickedly. “I understand. Weasley would put me off my food, too.”

She stared at him in stunned silence for a moment, fighting the urge to laugh. But then a lip quivered, her shoulders caved, and laughter won out.

“That’s so mean!” she tried to say, but to hell with it, he was dangerously close to her own thoughts on the matter anyway. He looked quietly pleased that he had been able to make her laugh, and it was with a broader grin that he relaxed even further back into his seat.

As her laughter faded, Hermione allowed herself (subtly, of course) to check him out. Again, there was that flash of skin under his collar that suddenly seemed far too tempting. The tiniest hints of silver stubble glinted along his jaw. His steely gaze watching her, his lips curving into a grin…

Oh, shit. Maybe she’d not been that subtle, after all.

“Speaking of food…” said Malfoy, still watching her with a knowing smirk. “What made you bring me cake?” he asked.

Hermione reddened. “Well, I, er, saw you last week.”

Waiting for her to continue, he took a sip of firewhiskey. Hermione found herself staring helplessly at the sheen of moisture it left behind on his lips.

“And I, er, I thought that cake might be a good peace offering,” she said, tearing her gaze away. “You know, to give us something to talk about.”

He raised an eyebrow. “If a conversation was what you wanted, you probably shouldn’t have run off afterwards.”

“Yeah, well. I had to recover from the whole ‘sex’ fiasco.”

Malfoy laughed. “Fair point. Either way, it worked, didn’t it? Look at us now.”

Hermione did.

Their knees were almost touching under the table. Their firewhiskey glasses were mirror images, hands dangerously close, skin brushing skin with the slightest of movements, sending electricity through her nerve endings. They looked good together, she thought.

It occurred to her for only the briefest of seconds that it was completely insane to be feeling this way about _Draco Malfoy_ before she brushed it off. No matter the logistics of it all, something felt right. Sitting here in a revealing dress with a very attractive man… It was the closest to feeling sexually liberated she’d felt in a long while. Not that she wanted sex, of course not. She knew all too well the pattern: the slight curiosity, only ever followed by boredom, irritation, and disappointment. Not a chance. Tonight was just…pleasant.

Time passed all too quickly. They chatted about life; about work, about the Ministry, about the news, about friends, and even about their families, which Hermione had thought would be the last thing they could discuss amicably. Malfoy told her about his work on the international trading standards of potions ingredients – “the things some people try and sneak through, you wouldn’t believe” – and Hermione told him about the strides she was making with S.P.E.W. As it turned out, he’d actually been following her progress via the Daily Prophet and inter-departmental Ministry memos, and Hermione was delighted to have such a captive audience when she spoke about the laws she was in the process of writing.

She couldn’t remember the last time she was able to have this thorough a catch-up with anyone. Now that Malfoy had shed the unbearable arrogance of his school days, she was pleasantly surprised to realise that they had rather a lot in common.

They’d been discussing the finer points of alchemical reasoning, and on their third drink together, when Hermione realised that it was getting late.

“I really ought to head home,” she said, surprised to realise quite how reluctant she was to leave. “But, er, thank you. For a lovely evening.”

He smiled. “Thank _you_. And good luck with the campaign. I look forward to your Wizengamot speech next month.”

There was a beat as Hermione smiled appreciatively, and then Malfoy leant slightly closer across the table. Hermione’s heart skipped up into her throat before she could stop it. “I have one last thing to ask you, before you go,” he said.

Assuming he had a question about her Ministry work, Hermione nodded innocently, but a slow smirk began to spread across his face.

“Tell me, Granger…” he said, swirling the contents of his glass of firewhiskey. “How hungry are you tonight?”

As if it hadn’t paid the slightest attention to her earlier thoughts about tonight being pleasant and nothing more, a bolt of desire shot through Hermione’s body. Honestly, it was as if her brain didn’t even listen to itself half the time.

Somewhat distracted, it took Hermione a moment to process what Malfoy had actually said. But when she did, she felt her mouth drop open, and her eyes flicked back to his, searching for confirmation. Was he asking her…?

His smirk was back. His eyebrows lifted dangerously. Ah. It was clear he wasn’t asking about her dietary status.

Her heartbeat thudded through her veins. She was incredulous, then horrified, and finally furious. How dare he? How dare he assume that her desires were something he had _any_ right to know about? And yet…Hermione could feel in her gut an irrepressible response to his words. A lifting feeling, a rush of electricity, a tightening of muscles. Her mouth was suddenly very dry.

But she took a look back at his smug face and felt the outrage win out.

“That’s none of your business, Malfoy,” she said quietly, and stood up. Flattening down her dress, and tossing her hair back, she affixed him with as calm a glare as she could muster. “I’ve shared enough personal information with you for one evening. _Goodnight_.”

As she stood up, the only emotion she could detect on Malfoy’s face was some kind of fond amusement she had never expected to see. He raised a glass to her. “Until another evening, then,” he said softly, and Hermione cursed the swoop of anticipation in her belly.

She pulled her gaze from his lips and, with a huff, walked away. It took a lot of effort not to turn around.


	3. Six Times This Week

Almost exactly as the dregs of her hangover dissipated over the next twenty-four hours, Hermione’s mind began to fill instead with unwelcome thoughts about Malfoy. Picturing the way he’d looked last night. Lecturing herself on why she should definitely _not_ be attracted to him. And yet still wondering when she’d get to see him again.

It was awfully rude, she thought, as she narrowly avoided spilling scalding hot tea over her lap in a distracted haze, for him to be occupying her thoughts in this way. Hermione’s mind was very busy and very in-demand right now, and as capable as she was, she had her limits. There was only so much thinking she could do about the promotion of elfish welfare when her brain was insisting on replaying highlight reels of the way Malfoy’s body had looked under the strobe lights, over and over again. Enjoyable, certainly, but not particularly helpful.

Even the mirror above her bathroom sink had noticed something was up, and it shouted a disapproving “ _I told you you’ve been swallowing too much toothpaste_!” after her as she swept out of the flat on Monday morning.

Despite managing to maintain her focus long enough to arrive intact at the Ministry, Hermione continued to feel unsettled for the rest of the day. It was as if a ghoul had taken up residence in the upper crevices of her brain, groaning discontentedly and lobbing the odd figurative pipe at her frontal cortex whenever things got too quiet. She was jittery and restless, fidgeting uncomfortably when seated and pacing endlessly when stood. Her lunchbreak couldn’t come soon enough, and the delicious-looking toastie she managed to score from a muggle vendor a short walk away was only able to put a slight dent in the malaise that had settled over her like a storm cloud.

She was attacking her toastie with the desperation of a starving man when there came a harsh knock at the door of her office. It was not a knock to be ignored. The sort of knock that demanded attention.

Brushing crumbs from her lips, Hermione put her toastie down with no small amount of reluctance and cleared her throat. “Come in?”

There was no reply.

Frowning, she stole another bite of her toastie, got to her feet, and opened the door.

There was no one there. But there _was_ something on the floor. A small paper bag with a card on the front.

She bent to pick it up.

Inside was a perfect slice of Bakewell tart, the pastry crisp and the icing soft and gooey. And on the card:

‘ _Just in case you get hungry_ - _DM’._

Oh, dear God.

Hermione’s heart, despite chastisements from its owner, started to pound.

* * *

On Tuesday, it was a lemon slice that greeted her when she got back from her lunchbreak.

The next day, she found a fresh apple turnover in her pigeonhole. It was still warm.

Thursday – a raisin flapjack. Friday, a blueberry muffin.

Every single treat was absolutely delicious. Mouth-wateringly, addictively delicious. And every one of them came with a suggestive note.

_‘Fancy a taste?’_

_‘Eat me.’_

_‘All for you.’_

_‘Have your cake and eat it too.’_

By the end of the week, Hermione was feeling bewildered, sexually frustrated, and decidedly unhealthy.

Still having seen neither hide nor hair of the man in question, Hermione eventually decided to write him a letter. Said letter took three hours and twelve failed attempts, and finally read:

‘ _Malfoy. If you keep insisting on sending me such lovely food, I’m going to be the size of a house by Christmas.’_

 _‘I’ll take that as a ‘thank you’_ ,’ came the reply, only a few minutes later. ‘ _I’m glad to hear you appreciate good food when you taste it.’_

Hermione rolled her eyes at the parchment. ‘ _Good food appears to be rather a preoccupation of yours_ ,’ she wrote. And then, daringly: ‘ _Or is that just for my benefit_?’

_‘What can I say? I would hate for you to miss out.’_

Hermione didn’t respond, but the blush that appeared on her face refused to die down for at least an hour.

At exactly quarter past one on Saturday afternoon, just as Hermione was beginning to think that she was safe for the day, a chocolate chip brownie arrived via owl post. The accompanying note:

‘ _Booth at Tarantallegra tonight? 11pm_?’

There were a million reasons why Hermione shouldn’t go. And yet by 9, she found herself pulling on a see-through black top and dark jeans and throwing floo powder into the fireplace with the words ‘Diagon Alley’ on her lips.

Her response to Malfoy:

‘ _All right. But be warned; I turn into a pumpkin at midnight_.’

‘ _I don’t know if I understand this new part of your metaphor, Granger_ ,’ said Malfoy’s answering letter, and when she received it in the Leaky Cauldron, most of the way through a bottle of wine, Hermione laughed and laughed and laughed.

* * *

“If a Chelsea bun is a talking point, what does a pumpkin mean?” asked Malfoy, the moment Hermione slid into the booth opposite him.

She grinned. “It’s from an old muggle children’s story. A servant girl goes to a royal ball in a beautiful gown and a sparkling carriage, but at midnight, the dress turns to rags, and the carriage into a pumpkin.”

“Sounds like some shoddy transfiguration work to me.”

“They never did elaborate on the Fairy Godmother’s qualifications,” quipped Hermione, and he laughed bemusedly. “I believe it’s my turn to buy you a drink?” she suggested.

Malfoy grinned at her. “If you insist,” he said, watching with interest as she wandlessly summoned two Morganaritas, the elegant glasses sailing into their booth and into their hands.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the low thumping of the music from downstairs filling the silence. “I, er, wanted to say thank you for all the treats this week,” said Hermione tentatively.

Grinning, Malfoy raised his glass as if toasting her. “My pleasure,” he said. “I often find that I don’t realise just how hungry I am until I eat. I thought perhaps I could help jog your memory.” His words seemed innocent, but the smirk on his face told Hermione that they were anything but.

A distinct thrum of excitement shot through her body. “You are relentless,” she said, trying not to smile.

He laughed. “What can I say? I found your metaphor rather…fitting.”

Hermione looked down at her lap, a blush flaring on her cheeks as her heart kept racing. “It seems to have caused me no end of trouble so far.”

“Shame,” he said, his hand curling tighter around his glass. “It’s made things rather interesting for me.” There was a pause while they both took a drink, Malfoy watching her steadily and Hermione trying desperately not to blush. “I don’t suppose there’s any ‘personal information’ I could get out of you tonight?”

Hermione smirked. “That depends on whether you ask the right questions,” she said, attempting a slow, sultry drink of her cocktail. God knew whether it was the alcohol, or the atmosphere, or the adrenaline, but she was feeling daring tonight.

“Hm,” said Malfoy, a sly grin spreading across his face. “I’m glad. I was hoping you wouldn’t make it too easy for me.”

Hermione’s gaze flickered up to his eyes, feeling frozen in place and yet delighted by the prospect.

“I hope you won’t mind if I jump straight in,” said Malfoy, a devilish smirk on his face. “I wanted to ask you: if sex is like food… Have you found this week to be… satisfying?”

A spark of courage flared in Hermione’s chest, and with a sip of her drink for luck, she returned his sly grin, the naughty reply dancing instantly into her mind. “Oh, Malfoy. If sex is like food… you’ve made me come six times this week.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened before he could stop himself, his lips parting in shock. He gazed at her, speechless, his eyes blazing, his hand clenched around his glass hard enough to break. A pink blush bloomed on his cheeks. For the first time, he wasn’t the one in control.

Hermione was _delighted_.

She smiled sweetly at him and took another drink, relishing in the way Malfoy watched her. She didn’t know if she had ever felt this sexy before in her life. This was _intoxicating_.

It took Malfoy a moment to right himself, adjusting his blazer and clearing his throat. “Well. That sounds like a record to be beaten.”

Past the point of caring if she was encouraging him, Hermione grinned back. “Indeed.”

* * *

Hermione had bid him goodnight that evening with no small amount of reluctance. There was something magnetic about their interactions together, and it took a great deal of effort to pull herself away from him and towards the apparition point. What she wanted, she wasn’t quite sure, but there was no denying the fact that chatting to Malfoy was more intoxicating than anything _Tarantallegra_ kept behind the bar. 

And though she could barely bring herself to admit it, she wanted him. To use the metaphor he was so fond of… she was hungry. And not just in general. It was the sort of hunger that only something tall, blonde, and ending in ‘- _Raco Malfoy’_ could satisfy.

When this thought occurred to her on Sunday afternoon, Hermione swore loudly and stomped to the kitchen to drown her sorrows in tea and biscuits. Half a packet of chocolate digestives later, she reflected on that fact that perhaps there was one good thing to come out of this.

Ron would be pleased to know that he wasn’t quite terrible enough in bed to have put her off men forever.


	4. A Girl With A Healthy Appetite

From going one week without seeing a trace of Draco Malfoy, the next week seemed to make up for it by having him appear _everywhere_ Hermione looked.

As luck would have it, he happened to arrive into one of the Ministry fireplaces in a swirl of emerald flames at the exact moment she passed by. The second time it happened, Hermione gave an involuntary squeak and hurried up to her office with such haste that she forgot about her House-Elf colleagues Milley and Dorney, who had to sprint to keep up with her.

As luck would have it, Malfoy also seemed to be waiting for the lift almost every time she happened to be riding it that week. The third time it happened, he grinned sheepishly at her, and Hermione managed to get the heel of her shoe stuck in the gap between the lift and the floor.

And as luck would have it, he kept having several conversations a day outside the window of her office. The fourth time it happened… Well… Hermione realised he might just be doing that, at least, on purpose.

He was driving her crazy. It was like he had been seeping into her pores since Saturday, filling her up with an excitement and a nervousness that kept her fingertips tingling and her heart pounding. Over the course of a day of chance encounters and secret smiles, Hermione would teeter between feeling like the sexiest thing alive, to feeling like the world’s biggest idiot.

And through it all…there was the _wanting_.

From barely paying the man a lick of attention a month ago, Hermione could now think of nothing she wanted more than another night in a nightclub booth with him, sipping firewhiskey from cold glasses, their knees brushing secretly under the table. She wanted to see him, to talk to him, to touch him-

Hermione yanked herself away from such unprofessional thoughts with the ferocity of a Portkey departure when Milley had to ask her for the third time to pass the quill, commenting bluntly that Hermione’s distracted handwriting looked like a doxy had been dipped in ink and left to wriggle reluctantly across the parchment. Unwilling to argue, and recognising that this was in fact, an accurate appraisal of her work, Hermione handed over her quill rather meekly.

* * *

By Friday, they’d managed to make enough progress with their presentation for the Wizengamot, that Hermione allowed herself a slightly more leisurely lunchbreak down in the Ministry canteen.

And who would be there on his own at a table, but Draco Malfoy, tucking into his lunch, jade-green robes gathered comfortably around his frame, a book propped up in front of him.

Taking a breath in an attempt to gather as much courage as possible, Hermione loaded her tray up with the day’s lunch special and marched over to him. He was so busy poring over his book that he didn’t seem to notice her approaching until she put her tray down and said:

“Fancy some company?”

And then he looked up at her, lips curving into a grin. “I do like company,” he said. Flicking his wand lazily, he sent Hermione’s chair zooming backwards, and she sat down, trying not to look too pleased.

She dug into her food enthusiastically, and the two of them settled into a comfortable silence across the table from one another. Hermione was reminded of _Taratallegra’_ s private booths, even despite the noisy background chatter of the busy canteen around them.

She eyed him interestedly as he flipped another page. “No metaphor remarks today?” she teased.

He smirked. “Give me time. You can’t hurry greatness, Granger.”

“Pft,” she scoffed. “I believe in greatness _and_ timeliness.”

“Ah. I prefer to take my time about things,” said Malfoy, his voice positively dripping with implied meanings.

“Is that why we’ve been dancing around one another for weeks?” blurted Hermione, before her brain had time to catch up with her mouth. Christ. She needed to get a handle on her verbal filter.

An array of terrifying consequences to her blunt words rushed through her head but Malfoy just looked at her in mild surprise and then started to laugh. In disbelief, Hermione paused halfway through a mental self-lecture about _thinking_ before _speaking_.

“Personally, I’d put it down to being unsure whether you’d prefer me to court you by bringing you cakes and compliments, or by buying you firewhiskey and kissing you in a _Tarantallegra_ booth,” said Malfoy steadily.

Hermione blinked at him.

Was this really happening? It was like her chest had opened and her heart had flown up to the heavens. An angelic choir was singing delightedly somewhere in the back of her brain. Malfoy wanted to… _court_ her?

“That’s a terribly old-fashioned term,” she said nervously, mostly because she didn’t know how to let on that _both options sounded delightful_.

“Perhaps,” he shrugged. His face was the very definition of nonchalance, but his hand was clenched rather a little too tightly around his fork to carry off the act completely.

“I, er,” stammered Hermione, blushing hotly. “Ilikeitthough.”

Malfoy’s face lifted with poorly-concealed delight. “Which one?”

“Er. Both, please,” she replied, feeling bizarrely as if she were ordering off a menu.

_Yes, I’d like one Draco Malfoy, please. With a side of hot, steamy-_

Her cheeks as red as the tomato soup on the table before her, Hermione brought this rapidly derailing train of thought to a grinding halt. 

Malfoy’s lip twitched. “Both it is. Would you meet me at _Tarantallegra_ tonight?”

Hermione’s heart kicked its pace up a notch. “Yes. But only if firewhiskey and kisses are _preceded_ by cakes and compliments.”

Not missing a beat, Malfoy slid his dessert across the table towards her without breaking eye contact. It was a custard tart.

“I like a girl with a healthy appetite,” he said with a mischievous grin, and Hermione couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

* * *

Parvati and Ginny were practically hysterical with excitement when they arrived at Hermione’s house through the Floo that night, both dressed in their skimpiest dresses, highest heels, and carrying enough alcohol to flatten a Hippogriff.

It was Hermione’s fault really; she’d sent them both an owl earlier that day with the message ‘I might be going home with someone at _Tarantallegra_ tonight…help me get ready?’. It was apparently all that they had been hoping for the last few months, because they came armed with makeup, spare dresses, and, much to Hermione’s distress, _lingerie_.

_“I am NOT wearing something that you’ve used to seduce Harry with!”_

_“She’s right, that is kind of nasty, Gin.”_

_“Cleaning charms do exist, you know!”_

After a brief but heated debate, it was decided that Hermione would wear her own underwear that night.

Clothing was less easily decided upon.

Hermione wanted to wear something a bit sexier than normal, but she didn’t want to force herself into something she was uncomfortable in. This effectively eliminated the majority of her wardrobe.

After an hour of throwing tops and skirts around, trying on shoes and finding out she couldn’t walk in them, and getting progressively more tipsy on the shockingly strong cocktails Ginny had created in the kitchen, Hermione finally decided on a figure-hugging green dress with a plunging neckline that made her feel like some kind of temptress.

She wondered if Malfoy would like the green.

“It’s very Slytherin of you,” said Ginny happily, as if she’d read her mind. “Like you’re dressing just for _him_.”

Hermione had planned to keep the identity of her suitor hidden, but it had only taken Parvati five minutes, three measures of Lucky Leprechaun gin, and one “It’s Malfoy, isn’t it?” to get the entire story out of her. To their credit, Ginny and Parvati listened delightedly and set about on Hermione’s makeover with an enthusiasm that showed that they’d taken this new development in their stride. Perhaps a little _too_ much in their stride, given their subsequent conversation about exactly what Malfoy might enjoy in bed. A conversation that Hermione swiftly put an end to, she might add.

And though she was initially mortified that her best friends now knew that the man she was trying so hard for was _Draco Malfoy_ , after it wore off, Hermione found that she was suddenly having a hell of a lot more fun. 

And so by the time her cheeks were well and truly pink from both the alcohol and the teasing she’d endured at the girls’ behest, she was dressed, made-up, and ready to satisfy the hunger that had been building inside her from that first night she and Malfoy danced together, all those weeks ago.

As Hermione admired herself in her bedroom mirror, Parvati took a long swig of her gin and gillywater and patted her rather affectionately on the bum. “My sexy protegee,” she slurred. “Go ye forth, and, and, I dunno, Gin, help me out-”

Ginny didn’t need telling twice. “And get _fucking_ _laid_!”

* * *

Hermione thought she was going to pass out from adrenaline as she approached the booth. She nervously pulled her dress down over her thighs, took a breath, set her shoulders, and walked inside.

Malfoy wasn’t there.

She laughed at herself, resolved to be less of a drama queen in future, and sat down.

She’d barely managed to summon a pair of firewhiskies and settle back into her seat before a familiar voice reached her ears.

“Starting without me?”

She levitated the second glass over to him and grinned as he caught it in mid-air. “You look incredible tonight,” he said, without a trace of uncertainty.

“As do you,” she responded, blushing. It was true. Tonight, Malfoy wore black jeans that emphasised the sharp lines of his legs, and to her surprise, a boxy red shirt with a sinful number of buttons undone. “Very… Gryffindor.”

He smirked at her and sat down, eyes sweeping appraisingly over her. He didn’t need to say anything about the colour of her dress; she knew exactly what he was thinking.

There was a beat of companionable silence as they both took a drink, silently watching one another across the table.

“I was, er, accosted on my way up here by a certain Ginny Weasley,” Malfoy said suddenly, leaning towards her with amusement on his lips. “She told me in no uncertain terms that I’d regret it if I ever did anything to upset you.”

Hermione’s heart warmed. “She’s right,” she said, trying not to laugh. “Do you remember her Hogwarts-era Bat Bogey Hex?”

Malfoy shuddered theatrically. “All too well. I still have nightmares.”

And Hermione laughed. “I hope she hasn’t scared you enough to rescind your offer from earlier today,” she said. She had tried to say it as a joke, but she knew that her hopes and her fears and her vulnerabilities had shone out through every syllable as if spoken aloud.

Malfoy’s knee brushed hers under the table. “Not at all.”

Hermione shivered. “You meant what you said, then?”

“That I’d been trying to decide how to make a move on you?” he asked, his lips curving into a grin. “Yes, I meant it.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, because her brain was so full of words and thoughts and feelings that she naturally couldn’t think of a single thing to say. It suddenly felt like all of her attraction to Malfoy had been amplified tenfold, crashing down about her ears like a tidal wave. It was like she was short-circuiting.

“You know, things were much easier when we were speaking in metaphors,” Malfoy teased.

She laughed, embarrassed. God, his eyes, his hair. She couldn’t seem to stop looking at him. Had he always looked this good? “Perhaps you’re right. Should we go back to that?” she suggested shyly.

“Good idea.” His eyes searched her face. “May I ask about your appetite tonight?”

Hermione laughed again at his audacity, even as her heart started racing. “No you may not,” she said, biting her lip to keep from grinning.

“As you wish,” smirked Malfoy. “In that case…how about a dance?”

Her heart seemed to stop. Here it was. The time had come. She felt alive and electric, as if every pore was fizzing and spitting with energy.

Hermione took a breath and got to her shaky feet.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said, extending a nervous hand.

* * *

The music was deafening, the heat sweltering, the crowd insatiable, and yet Hermione couldn’t care less.

Her heart was pounding louder than the bass under her feet as she danced in and out of Malfoy’s arms, bodies brushing, hands touching, close enough that she couldn’t help but wonder whether he could feel her heartbeat against his chest.

She turned around and leant back against him in a moment of bravery, rocking back until her head touched his shoulder, and instantly his hands were on her waist, guiding her, moving her along to the beat. She turned to look at him over her shoulder, and her heart leapt to see the way he was watching her, his eyes lidded, his cheeks flushed.

She had no idea how long they danced for. Teasing steps, flitting movements, careful touches and smouldering glances. She knew where this was leading, where they were going. And she wanted it. God, she wanted it. She had no idea how she could possibly have gone so long without feeling like this. And now this longing, this passion, this heat, was back, she wanted it all.

The night wore on, and they got closer still. She wasn’t sure exactly how she’d gotten the courage, but she ended up with her arms around his shoulders, his hands on her hips, the two of them moving together. It would have been unconceivable only a short while ago, and yet now it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“Tell me, Malfoy-” she started, looking up at him.

“Call me Draco,” he said. “Please.” He looked utterly undone, his pupils blown wide and his body taut against hers. The careful firmness of his palms on her sides was so gentle, and yet Hermione could feel it deep down in her bones, as if he held her very essence between his hands. His hair was ruffled, falling out of place, and his cheeks were pink again – that sure-fire sign that Hermione was getting to him.

There was a strange kind of power in this feeling, thought Hermione.

Her heart racing, she rose up onto her tiptoes. “Draco,” she said.

One word, and he reacted as if she’d made all his deepest desires come true. His grip tightened, and his gaze intensified, staring at her with an expression bordering on awe. “Fuck, Hermione,” he murmured.

“Tell me Draco,” she whispered into his ear, relishing the feel of his body against hers, his lips against her cheek, his hands holding her close. “How hungry are you tonight?”

Draco pulled back the barest inch so that he could gaze at her, a startled, blissful smile spreading across his features. “Fucking _starving_ ,” he answered finally.

And he crashed his lips to hers.


	5. Starving For You

It occurred to Hermione that every moment she had previously spent _not_ kissing Draco had been the most horrendous waste of time.

He felt as if he had been made to fit her; the way his hands melded so perfectly at her waist, his thumbs grazing her ribcage in a gesture that felt electric even through her clothes. His body felt like heaven against her own as she leant up to meet him, her hands tightening in his hair with a desperation that betrayed exactly how much she’d been thinking about him. And yet Draco sought her lips in return, with an honesty and a delight that had Hermione thinking that just maybe, he’d been thinking about her just as much. 

He tugged her in closer at the waist, and she arched into him, sparks spiralling outwards across her skin at every point of contact.

It felt good. It felt right. And it felt like _finally_.

She couldn’t say exactly how long they remained there on the dancefloor, wrapped in one another’s arms, eyes meeting and breaths catching, sharing kisses both as soft as satin and as fierce as fire. It was the culmination of weeks of longing and hoping and wanting, and she didn’t want to part for even a second. But despite the haziness and the headiness of the night, she was hyper aware at the exact moment that Draco drew back, looked her right in the eye, and asked her a silent question.

She nodded her head _yes_ without even having to think, and then he was taking them both home, the familiar unpleasant feeling of side-along apparition that squeezed Hermione’s insides insufficient to douse the flames that licked up her body with a ferocity she had almost forgotten.

She’d never seen Draco’s apartment before, but she didn’t bother wasting any time trying to commit the décor to memory. They landed with a jolt in his bedroom, and then he was pressing her back against the wall, his lips against her neck, kissing and licking and sucking with an ardour that made Hermione’s knees feel about as strong as paper. He brushed her hair aside to kiss up the column of her neck and to suck lightly under her jaw, and a shiver ran through her.

God.

She didn’t want this to ever stop.

She fastened her hand into the beltloop at his waist and tugged him even closer, hot exhilaration running through her at the realisation that he was attracted to her, that he was aroused by her. _Very_ aroused by her, if the pressure against her hip was anything to go by. Pressing a soft thumb against the slope of his collarbone and revelling at the startled wonderment on his face as he pulled back to look at her, she smiled invitingly. His gaze became even more heated, and she dipped her neck to kiss at his chest, at the elusive sliver of skin that had occupied her thoughts so completely throughout the last few weeks.

She hadn’t intended to use magic, but the buttons of his shirt came undone rather more rapidly than she could have managed alone. Entranced by the revealed expanse of skin, she brought a hand up to caress the curves of his chest, following the long, silvery scar that spanned him from shoulder to hip, tracing the shape of the soft muscles, brushing the trail of glinting hairs that led so temptingly south.

He watched her, enraptured. And then she hesitated for a moment, the barest moment, and he swept her up in his arms again, carrying her over towards his bed. He laid her gently down, brushing delicate, fiery kisses to her throat, to her collarbone, to the hollow between her breasts, so daringly revealed by the neckline of her dress.

“You are just–” he said, moulding his palm to the curves of her body as he slid it down towards her thigh – “the most” – he kissed her again – “ _incredible_ witch.”

She smiled up at him, her fingers twisting through the hair at the nape of his neck. “That’s a hell of a compliment, coming from you,” she joked, and he rolled his eyes before he let her pull him back down again.

The thought had just begun to form in Hermione’s mind that Draco’s shirt, unbuttoned and hanging off his shoulders, was getting in the way, when it disappeared. Oh, bollocks.

He pulled back and eyed her suspiciously. “Did you just… vanish that?”

She bit her lip. “Not on purpose.”

He looked torn between laughing and wanting to kiss her again, so she grasped at his hips and buried her face in his neck. “I’ll buy you a new one,” she murmured against his skin. “As long as you promise not to wear it around me.”

And he let out a huff of exasperation, of awe, and of desire, and Hermione arched up into him, overcome with the need to feel him against her.

“May I?” he whispered, as if reading her mind, his fingers lifting the hem of her dress, her green, Slytherin dress. Hermione nodded, smiled in a way that she hoped conveyed how much she wanted him, and sat up. She grasped at her dress and lifted it up and over her head – sadly not quite as smoothly and gracefully as she’d hoped.

Although, with a glance at Draco’s misty, lidded gaze, Hermione decided that it had done the trick.

His gaze roamed down her body, taking in the swell of her breasts and the valley of her thighs, half-hidden as they were by the delicate underwear Hermione was now rather glad she’d chosen. She bit her lip, willing herself to be less bashful, but one glance at Draco’s face told her everything she needed to know for reassurance.

“Salazar,” he breathed, and he folded down to take her in his arms, pressing his body against her, lips finding hers, slotting together with an almost predestined perfection.

Determined to get his jeans off before her involuntary magic took matters into its own hands, Hermione reached down to his belt. Despite the clear goal in her mind, she allowed herself to trace the shape of him through the fabric and he bucked into her touch, eyes widening and breath shortening.

A few short moments later, and Draco was tugging off the offending article of clothing and climbing back onto the bed with her, his body taut and nervous with need. Hermione wanted desperately to touch him, but she seemed unable to stop looking at him first, at the slopes of his body, the highlights and shadows in the shapes of him, the softness of his eyes, the inky black mark on his forearm that didn’t seem to bother her anymore, the way he looked at her as if she was something indescribable.

“You’re beautiful,” she said without thinking, and he barked out a startled laugh before it gave way to an expression of such tenderness that Hermione couldn’t help but kiss him again.

The feeling of his bare skin against hers was everything she had been craving.

He slipped a gentle hand up her side and across the curve of her breasts. They moved together as they kissed, Draco exploring the feel of her body against him. Hermione felt like her heart was expanding in her chest, becoming lighter and airier, making her feel like she could just about float if she tried hard enough.

But lightness wasn’t all she was after tonight. She wanted heaviness, heat, passion. The lightness could wait. And so, with a flirtatious grin, she reached behind her and snapped open her bra, tossing the straps down over her shoulders and flinging it coyly away. Urgency flooded through Draco’s very being, and he rushed to her as if he might never get to touch her again. His lips cascaded down her body, catching a nipple delicately with his tongue and kissing softly at the slope of her belly on his way down.

And then his mouth was there, exactly where she needed him, and she arched up into him as his hands grasped at her thighs like he couldn’t get enough. Her underwear was somehow gone completely, and she allowed only the slightest moment of self-consciousness for how ready she knew she must feel under his tongue.

Knotting desperate hands in his hair, she moved against him, coaxing him, guiding him, begging him to take her where she wanted so badly to go. And with his fingers, and his hands, and his lips, and his tongue, and with time, he was sending her over that precipice, rising and falling with her as she unravelled beneath him.

Christ.

Now _this_ was what she had been missing.

And she pulled him up to her again so that she could pour everything she was thinking and feeling into a kiss; a bruising kiss that had Draco pressing desperately into her, that had Hermione’s heart unfurling in her chest like the wings of a butterfly.

“Draco, please-” she whispered into his lips, not really sure what she was saying or what she was asking for, exactly, but he knew.

And then he was pulling off the last piece of fabric that separated him from her, and she was gazing at him, admiring the last areas of his body that she had yet to explore. She reached out, tentative and questioning, and his eyes fluttered shut, breaths juddering out in time with her careful movements.

She stroked him with a warmth and a curiosity that soon bloomed into raw longing, and he seemed to sense the change, because he brushed her hands away and kissed her down into the mattress, his body aligning itself perfectly above hers.

This time, the question was spoken aloud. “Is this okay?”

Hermione gazed up at him in earnest, feeling her eyes crinkle slightly with affection at the corners. “I want you,” she answered honestly. And he bent to kiss at her neck again, and then he was settling himself against her, was brushing right at the most intimate parts of her, when a thought occurred to her. As they often did. 

She put a hand up to his chest to stop him. The stricken expression on his face hit her like a bludger, but as she rolled out from under his body, pushed him down, and settled herself atop him instead, it gave way to one of such pure delight and longing that Hermione could barely breathe.

Draco’s hands came to her hips, almost trembling with anticipation, and with her heart larger in her ribcage than she had ever felt it before, she rose up. She guided him between her thighs, and locking eyes, brown to grey, she began to sink down onto him.

“Hermione…” he choked out, and she responded with delight, bending down to kiss him fervently as she adjusted, unused to the sensation that had been absent for so long.

“God,” she murmured, after a moment – too long – of stillness. And she began to move properly.

Draco was enraptured, his hands carding through Hermione’s hair, caressing her breasts, sliding around her waist, rubbing against her centre as she rocked into him, her mouth falling open.

He looked incredible beneath her, all hard lines and angles, but with a softness in the smile in his eyes, and the delicate skin at his throat. It made her insides contract just to watch him, and yet the expression on his blissful face seemed to say that he was thinking all the same things about her.

She leant back slightly as she continued to move, arching her back and letting her eyes flutter shut, and Draco made a low noise in his throat. She opened her eyes to look back at him, realising that something was building in his expression. With a devilish grin, Hermione rose ever higher than before, and rushed back down onto him with a speed that tore a moan from Draco’s lips.

And then he was grabbing her, lifting her off him and onto the mattress, and he was crawling up and sinking into her with a desperation that sent electricity shooting right down to the tips of Hermione’s toes.

She clung to him, kissing ardently at any skin she could reach as he thrust into her, his body stretched out and burning with need. Her cries mingled with his, each drive of his hips pushing them both further into delirium.

Hermione couldn’t believe it had taken them this long to get to this point.

The air was thick with heat and sex, but also with promises, with questions, with the knowledge that they were crossing a barrier that meant nothing would be the same between them again. And yet Hermione felt herself hurtling over that barrier without the slightest fear.

He made her laugh. He challenged her. She liked him. And right now, he was making her feel very, very good indeed. That, thought Hermione, her head tilting back in bliss, was a strong enough foundation for pretty much anything to be built on.

Draco pressed a kiss to her forehead, and Hermione began to feel as if she was melting.

She grabbed at him, pulling him deeper with every thrust, and she felt his body shake under her palms. “Hermione, I-” he started, his forehead pressed to hers, breathless and incoherent. He forced a hand in between their bodies, pressing small circles into the very core of her with an urgency that had Hermione’s back arching up off the mattress, body jerking with every motion.

“Fuck, Draco,” she whispered, and that was it, like a dam bursting. A final press of his fingertips against her centre, and her eyes squeezed shut, her breath tearing itself from her lips in liquid gasps. She kissed him fiercely, and then he was moaning into her mouth as his body shook, pressing as close as physically possible, hips jerking incoherently, unintelligible words spilling from his mouth. He pressed kiss after kiss against her cheekbone, her temple, her jaw, the corner of her lips, and Hermione held him close as the shockwaves of pleasure coursed through his body.

When he collapsed onto her, there was stillness.

Hermione took a breath, one, two, _three_ , and gently let go of his hips, moving to run her fingers softly in circles against his back. “…Wow,” she breathed eventually, grinning.

Draco raised his head, and a slow smirk spread across his face. “Thanks,” he teased, with a rakish quirk of his eyebrows. “I try.”

She laughed again and wriggled slightly beneath him, encouraging him to push himself up and come to rest at her side, his palm on her hip. Hermione’s fingers couldn’t seem to stop touching him, tracing up and down his skin in tiny intricate patterns that made him shiver pleasantly.

They lay together in silence for a few moments, catching their breath, the atmosphere between them as clear and open as the feeling of fresh air after a rainstorm.

“You know, you should really think about being naked more often. It suits you,” commented Draco.

Spluttering with laughter, Hermione elbowed him. She couldn’t seem to wipe the smile off her face. “I could say the same about you.” She rolled onto her side, pressing her back against him and cuddling into the curve of his body. “You know, er, this was good.”

“Mm.”

“I mean, really good. Do you, er… do you think maybe…?”

Draco kissed the back of her neck and she shivered happily. “Do I think we’ll get to do this again?” he finished for her.

“Would you like to?!” Hermione burst out immediately, twisting so she could look at him properly. This seemed to make him smile, and he carefully reached out and brushed a lock of her hair behind her ear.

“I would,” he replied quietly. “As long as you let me take you out for dinner first.”

The grin on Hermione’s face increased tenfold and she curled into herself slightly, suddenly full of too much excited energy to know what to do with it. “Deal,” she said. She curled into him again, listening to the thud of his heartbeat against her back, her pulse still thrumming with exhilaration.

She reviewed her internal ‘ _more faff than they’re worth’_ list, and mentally drew a line through ‘ _men’_. And then, with a sheepish grin, added ‘ _pretending not to like Draco’_.

“You know,” she said eventually. “I’ve thought of one good thing about sex being like food.”

“Yeah?” Hermione could hear the smirk in his voice.

“No matter how ridiculously good the food was… And I mean… phenomenally good, you know…”

Draco snickered softly, his palm squeezing her hip.

“You always get hungry again eventually,” she finished. “So you get to enjoy it, you know, again, and again, and again…”

There was a pause, and then he laughed. “Is that a hint?”

She bit her lip and rolled towards him again, teasingly coaxing his hand back to her new favourite place for it between her thighs. “Perhaps.”

And an enchanted, blissful smile spread across Draco’s face. “I get the feeling I’m always going to be starving for you,” he murmured, and dived forwards to kiss her once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!  
> This was my first Dramione, but definitely not my last! So if you liked this story and want to see more of this wonderful pairing, please subscribe! I have lots of plans in the works...  
> Kudos and comments mean the world to me <3  
> See you next time! xx


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